


How You Ask by Tanzer

by der_tanzer



Series: Protective Custody [1]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you want something, the secret is how you ask. Or don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How You Ask by Tanzer

**Author's Note:**

> The first in the Protective Custody series of Murray/Quinlan fics, approaching their relationship from another angle, and earlier in canon. Not as fuzzy as Catbread, but still no death, so fear not.  
> 

“You’re not still feeling guilty, are you?” Nick asked, flinging his bag onto the bed.

“No, not really. But we’re right in the middle of a case, and Murray’s new in town…”

“It’s been three months, Cody. He’s got more friends than we do by now, and there’s nothing to do on the case but computer work. He doesn’t need our help, and besides, this is the first time we’ve had alone since he got here.” Nick caught a glimpse of Cody’s expression and went on hurriedly. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I love the little guy, but I miss you, too. All that sneaking around, being extra quiet, making love at midnight, and never out on deck.”

“Hey, that’s your idea. Murray doesn’t care what we’re doing or where we’re doing it, so long as it’s not in the middle of his desk while he’s trying to work.”

“He cares,” Nick said, suddenly serious.

“Why do you say that?” Cody grabbed Nick’s hand and led him over to the other bed, wanting to sit and talk for just a minute. They’d taken a room with two beds to allay suspicion, but they’d only be sleeping in one.

“Because he likes you. Can’t you tell?”

“Funny, I thought he liked you,” Cody said, trying to laugh.

“Whichever. Either way, it doesn’t seem right, rubbing his nose in it. I know he understands, but I’ll feel a lot better about being so—open—when he gets a date, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe we should have set him up with someone before we left.”

“Cody, man, we can’t run his life. We tried setting him up with girls, but the girls we know aren’t exactly his type. And I don’t really know any guys, his type or not.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“So, we’ve done all we can. Now we’re here in sunny Tijuana for three whole days with room service and a private bath, and I think we ought to enjoy it.”

“I’m enjoying,” Cody said defensively and Nick shoved him over on his back.

“Not yet, you’re not. But you will be.” He leaned down and bit Cody’s lower lip gently, sucking it as he slid a hand beneath the pastel sweater. His hand found one hard nipple and pinched it playfully, eliciting a moan that made them both shiver. Cody reached for the buttons on Nick’s shirt, undid two, and then pulled it off roughly over his head. Nick was right. They _had_ been too quiet and subdued lately.

Cody rolled Nick over and pulled his pants off, kissing a sloppy wet trail from the base of his throat to the root of his throbbing cock, making Nick groan and sob with need. He kept licking and kissing, pausing only to suck just a little around the head and wring out louder cries before returning to the root and balls. Nick might not agree, but Cody wanted to make it last. At least he did until Nick got hold of him again and leveled the field.

“Oh, no fair,” Cody sighed, his breath hot on Nick’s damp thighs. Nick’s hand tightened, stroking him long and slow, bringing him fully erect.

“Love and war, baby,” Nick whispered, then let out a hoarse shout when Cody swallowed him. “Oh fuck, baby. Cody, let me up. Let me—oh, shit, let me fuck you.”

“Is that how you ask?” Cody teased, lightly tonguing the ridge of his cock. Nick pressed the ball of his thumb against Cody’s slit, grinning as his lover gasped and thrust involuntarily into his strong hand.

“That’s how I ask. You want to see how I beg?”

“Kinda, yeah,” he said, but let Nick pull away and press him down. “How do you want me?”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll come before we can find out,” Nick said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned Cody over and knelt between his legs, rubbing his back with one hand. “That’s good, baby. God, you look so good.”

“So shut up and make me feel good already.” He’d hardly finished speaking before Nick’s hand was on him, in him, slick and cool, smoothing the way. Cody pulled his knees up and reached back with one hand to hold Nick’s thigh, telling him with tense fingers how much he liked it and how much more he wanted. Nick tested and teased for long moments, then slipped inside with an eager groan that Cody echoed, their voices melding as Nick reached for depth and Cody pushed back to give it to him. They rocked and thrust together, whispering and moaning their pleasure in a language known only to them. When they came, they came together, shouting and sobbing, and collapsed in a tangled heap.

“How’re you liking your vacation now?” Nick laughed, kissing the back of his neck. “Still worried about Murray?”

“Who?” Cody mumbled, his eyes glazing over.

“Nothing, baby. I love you.”

***

While Nick and Cody were having a good time not thinking about him, Murray was in King Harbor thinking hard about them. His computer work had led him to a conclusion he didn’t like and he needed his partners to help him fix it. The missing man they’d been looking for had turned up, but when Murray found him, he accidentally discovered the car theft ring the guy was running. If his friends had been there, that would have been good. But while Murray was a licensed private detective, and shaping up to be a good one, he was still very new and not terribly subtle. The victim-turned-suspect knew what Murray knew almost as soon as Murray knew it. The only thing the young detective had going for him was that he knew that, too.

The list of things that Murray didn’t have going for him was much longer. He had no back-up, no one to protect him if the thieves decided to shut him up, and no good ideas about where to hide. All he had was the police, and three months in this town was more than enough time to learn how much help he’d get there.

“What is it now, Bozinsky? Where are your buddies? You come to file a missing person’s report?” Quinlan snapped.

“No, Lieutenant, this is serious. The guys are out of town and I need help. We were working a case, a—a missing person, as it happens, only I found him and it turns out he’s—”

“Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. He’s the Easter Bunny. No, I got it. He’s Santa Claus and you want to warn me that I’m on his naughty list.”

“No, Lieutenant, please,” he said, thinking that Ted Quinlan should be at the head of that list and feeling glad that Nick wasn’t there after all, because he’d have said it. “You know all those car thefts you’ve been investigating? The tourists losing their luxury cars? This guy that I—that _we’ve_ been looking for is behind it. I found out by accident when I was running his background and saw that his bank accounts were still active. I was able to use that to trace the money back to—”

“Are you dicking with me, Bozinsky?” he interrupted again, finally giving Murray his full attention.

“What? No. _What_?”

“I said, _are you dicking with me?_ You expect me to believe you just accidentally solved a case I been working for two months?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, forgetting that honesty wasn’t always the best policy with this man. “But the thing is, he knows I know, and if you don’t go get him, he’s going to get away.”

“What do you mean, he knows? What does he know?”

“That I’ve uncovered the ring. Like I said, I traced the money from his bank accounts back to some very questionable dealers in luxury cars—which a much more interesting business than I would have thought. Some of them are getting upwards of fifteen grand just for those little dashboard clocks. Especially in the Rolls Royces. I think every bolt on one of those is worth more than your whole car.”

“That’s nice, Bozinsky. You got a point?”

“Oh, yes. Well, I was talking to some people and they started talking to each other and there’s no way someone hasn’t warned him by now.”

“No way, huh? Look, Bozinsky, even if you have broken the ring, which I sincerely doubt, there’s no way anybody’s gonna feel threatened by you. Why don’t you just give whatever information you think you have to the sergeant and get on out of here?”

“Because I’m telling you, I _know_. You can pick this guy up right now. I know where he _is_.”

“Bozinsky, you don’t know shit. Talk to the sergeant. Or not. I don’t care. Just get the hell out of my office before I throw your skinny ass in a cell for disturbing my peace.”

Murray thought he might be safer there but didn’t say so. He’d just have to go home and hope for the best. Maybe Calvin Blackwell didn’t know where he lived. But he did stop at the sergeant’s desk and leave Blackwell’s name. There was nothing left to lose by it.

Back on the boat, Murray tried calling the guys in Tijuana, but no one answered in their room. He told himself they must have gone out for supper, because speculating any further (showering, making love, sleeping in a sprawl of sturdy legs and strong arms) felt like a violation of their privacy. As it always felt like a violation when he heard them in their cabin at night, trying to be quiet and failing at critical moments. They’d been very upfront about their relationship when he moved in, as he had been about his own proclivities, but that didn’t mean they would be sharing. He kept to his end of the boat and they kept to theirs, but sound traveled, and the guilt kept him awake more nights than the noise.

They were in bed. He just knew it. Murray hung up the phone with a sigh and turned to his computer. There was nothing to keep him awake tonight, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

***

It didn’t take Calvin Blackwell fifteen minutes to find out the name of the skinny PI who knew too much. But what Blackwell didn’t know was that his partners were out of town. He hit the boat at midnight with three goons and too much firepower, prepared to take on a lot more than one over-caffeinated geek with a .45 and a nine round clip. Murray heard them coming, heard the glass break in the wheelhouse door as they sought entry, and had the presence of mind to call the police instead of going directly up to face them. But he only got so far as giving the dispatcher his name and location before four men with guns burst in on him. Murray pulled his .45 and then dropped to the floor behind his desk as one of the goons opened fire. A round hit his monitor with a dull bang and he swore softly. If he somehow survived this, it was going to be a bitch to clean up.

Another round punched through the front of his desk and zipped by, grazing his shin and showering him with fiberboard splinters. The police dispatcher was still squawking on the phone and another bullet struck it, maybe on purpose. Murray reached up awkwardly with his right hand and popped off a few shots, hoping for the best. Someone shouted and he felt a little better. Maybe he could take one of them with him. Of course if he did, Quinlan would no doubt claim that he’d started it. Murray didn’t want to die a murderer. He didn’t want to die at all.

He kept shooting until he heard a resounding crash, then dared to raise his head and see what had happened. One of the goons was down, but Blackwell, who had been crouching in front of the desk, popped up at the same time. He fired a single shot that hit Murray in the chest and knocked him backward, then leapt over the desk, pushing computers and electronics out of his way. Murray had lost the .45 and lay stunned, bleeding from a wound of indeterminate severity. With no other option remaining, he decided to take a chance and play possum. It shouldn’t work, but his swift calculations told him it had a higher probability of success than singlehandedly taking on two to four thugs, injured and unarmed. He’d lost his glasses at some point and would be lucky to find the thugs anyway. So he lay still and held his breath as rough hands turned his head to check his pulse.

“Finish him off,” someone said and one of the hands covered his nose and mouth, feeling for his breath.

“Forget it, he’s done. I hear sirens. Let’s get the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”

“What, are we paying by the bullet here?”

“Shut up. Let the little shit suffer for a couple minutes. He’ll be dead before they find him.”

Murray hoped they were fooled by him not breathing, rather than going by the wound he couldn’t see. He could barely even feel it, and that worried him a little. But when he heard them racing off the boat, one set of footsteps lagging and limping, his main reaction was relief. He still didn’t want to die, but if he was going to, he’d rather do it alone.

There were sirens up on the access road, screeching brakes and blaring horns, followed by the distant pop of gunfire. Murray smiled to himself and, after a moment, remembered to breathe again. That hurt and he whimpered softly. Now that the danger seemed to be over, he wished for Nick and Cody. Someone to hold his hand and say comforting things. Then he heard footsteps overhead again and knew he would be all right. No one who was coming was likely to hold his hand, but they would save his life.

“There’s no one here,” a voice said and Murray tried to call out. His chest suddenly felt tight and hot, pain blooming in the center and radiating throughout his body, and though he could breathe, he knew he wouldn’t get much volume. He felt around with one hand until he found part of the circuit board he’d been working on, solid but light enough to lift in spite of the pain, and flung it at the wall. It struck with a small sound and then clattered to the floor among piles of shredded metal and plastic. Instantly, the footsteps turned his way, and in a moment the small cabin was full of people. Murray saw Lieutenant Quinlan and briefly closed his eyes, as if praying for strength.

“Jesus, Bozinsky,” he cried, unable to bite it back. Then he turned and grabbed the nearest uniform. “Get an ambulance, now. Tell ‘em we got a man shot.” He shoved the uniform toward the door and stumbled over the jumbled mess on the floor to where Murray lay watching him. “What the hell happened, Bozinsky? Who are those guys?”

“Blackwell,” he gasped. “The—the car thief. I tried—tried to tell you.”

“Car thief? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Blackwell,” he said again. “He’s running the—the ring. I told you he knew I knew. Tried to shut me up.”

“Should’ve known there’s no shutting you up.” Quinlan unbuttoned Murray’s overshirt and ripped his t-shirt down the front to expose the wound. It was high in his left chest, above the heart but below the shoulder, and bleeding copiously. Quinlan looked around and spotted another t-shirt in the wreckage on the floor. He folded it into a sloppy bandage and pressed it to the wound, trying not to hear Murray’s sharp cry of pain.

“Lieutenant,” he panted, “where are my glasses? Do you see them anywhere?”

“Yeah, all smashed to hell. Forget it, kid, you got bigger problems.”

“In my desk,” he persisted. “There’s another pair—top drawer…” His hands were working convulsively, opening and closing on the floor, neatly trimmed nails scratching eerily on the wood. For reasons Quinlan would never allow himself to consider, he picked up the nearer hand and placed it on his own thigh. Murray squeezed hard, his long fingers much stronger than they looked, but still unable to make a dent in the taut muscle.

“I said shut up,” Quinlan snarled. But when the next uniform came stumbling in, he directed him to get the glasses and took them to put in his own breast pocket, then went back to holding the wound. He didn’t think it was too serious for a gunshot, but he didn’t really know anything about Murray. Maybe skinny geeks were delicate in other ways. The kid could be anemic, diabetic or starving to death for all Quinlan knew.

“Cooper, where’s that ambulance?”

“It’s here, Lieutenant. That’s what I came to tell you. They can’t get the gurney down here.”

“Shit!” he yelled, loud enough to make sure everyone on the dock was aware of his frustration. This was his fault, and as soon as Bozinsky was taken care of, people were going to start pointing that out. He could have picked up that Blackwell character this afternoon and the kid would be sitting down here typing his geeky little heart out right now, instead of bleeding to death on the floor. Quinlan wondered how much trouble he’d be in, and if the kid would make a big stink about it. “Get someone to help me carry him up.”

“I’ll do it, Lieutenant.”

“Like hell. Go get me a paramedic. The biggest one up there. _Now_!”

Cooper turned and ran through the galley and up the stairs, then came back with a bigger man in the black and blue uniform of a paramedic fire fighter. Quinlan kept his place by Murray’s side, figuring it could only help his case, as the medic knelt down across from him to take Murray’s pulse and check the wound.

“Hey, that’s not so bad,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “We’re going to get you up top so I can get a look at this, and then we’ll get you to the hospital. You’re gonna be fine, Mr.—”

“Bozinsky,” Quinlan supplied. “Murray Bozinsky. He’s gonna be okay, then?”

“Sure, he’ll be fine. But we need to get him out of here. Are you gonna help me?”

“Yeah. Cooper, get this shit out of the way,” he called, and the uniform went to work clearing a path. When he had all the equipment shifted, Quinlan lifted Murray’s upper body against his chest and the medic took his legs. Murray groaned miserably, letting his head loll on Quinlan’s shoulder, too hurt and miserable to even be ashamed. If there was one man in all the world that he didn’t want to whimper and cry in front of, let alone cling to for comfort, it was this one. But there was no one else.

They carried him swiftly and none too gently up to the salon and out on deck. The gurney was standing on the dock, and they handed him over the rail to another medic and a cop who were waiting. Quinlan wanted to tell them to be careful as they laid him down and peeled away the bloody compress, but that might give away his guilt. No one here knew that he was to blame, and anyone who knew them would know Bozinsky wasn’t his friend. So he stood out of the way and watched, letting his subordinates deal with the thugs, planning to drop the whole thing on his captain as soon as he got there. Bozinsky was his witness and that’s where his focus would lie.

The captain arrived just as Murray was ready to transport, and Quinlan told him what he knew, then climbed into the ambulance.

“Lieutenant, am I in trouble?” he asked, squinting determinedly to try and read Quinlan’s expression.

“What are you talking about?”

“I shot one of those guys, didn’t I?”

“So? It was self-defense, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes. They broke in and just started shooting. I was sure I was dead.”

“When did you call the police?”

“When I heard the glass break. They broke a window somewhere. I don’t know which one—I knew someone was coming in. I—I hoped they would just—just beat me. Hoped someone would come before it got—bad.”

Quinlan had to close his eyes for a moment and swallow a sizeable lump in his throat before he could respond. He’d never guessed the kid was that brave.

“Yeah, I—I’m sorry about that, Bozinsky. I was heading home when I got the call, or you’d still be waiting.”

“Should’ve listened to me,” Murray sighed and quietly passed out.

“Motherfucker.” He turned to the driver and snapped, “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“I’m doing my best, sir.”

Murray woke once, jolted back to consciousness when the gurney wheels hit the ground, and Quinlan remembered to ask him where Nick and Cody were. He mumbled the name of the hotel in Tijuana, and then they were taking him away, closing the door on the guilty cop. A nurse asked him if he was family, or if he knew where family could be found, and he said no to both. He had no idea where Murray was even from. But, because he was an authority figure, and still feeling responsible, he signed off on the treatment and then asked to use the phone. He had to call information to get the number of the hotel, but that turned out to be the easy part.

“This is Lieutenant Quinlan with the King Harbor Police Department. _King Harbor_. It’s in California, asshole. _Norte Americano._ Do you speak English? _¿Habla usted inglés?_ Yeah, I’ll hold.” After ten minutes of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits, in Spanish and backed by accordions, someone picked up and said hello in thickly accented English. “Yeah, I need to talk to one of your guests, Nick Ryder or Cody Allen. They’re probably sharing a room. Yeah, I know it’s the middle of the night. Of course it’s an emergency. _Soy un policía._ Just get me Ryder or Allen on the phone, _ahora_. _¿Comprende?_”

The Michael Jackson imposter came back on doing an accordion version of _Thriller_, and Quinlan manfully resisted the urge to pound his head against the desk. Then the line began to ring and, after what seemed like an impossibly long time, a sleepy voice answered.

“Murray? Buddy, you better not have been watching horror movies again,” he mumbled. “Because I am _not_ staying on the phone until you go to sleep.”

“Is that you, Ryder? This is Lieutenant Quinlan.”

“Quinlan?” he repeated. “What the hell do you want?”

“There was a break-in on your boat tonight. I don’t have all the details, but it seems to have something to do with a case you bozos were working before you took off.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Nick muttered, hearing only a few words, like _bozos_ and _took off_. Why would Quinlan call just to insult him?

“Wake up, Ryder. I ain’t got time for this shit.”

“You’re calling me in the middle of the night to tell me what you don’t have time for?”

“I’m calling to tell you Bozinsky’s been shot,” he snapped, too frustrated to temper his words.

“_What?_” Nick cried, and Quinlan heard Cody asking what was going on before Nick hushed him. They were probably sharing a bed, too, Quinlan thought, his irritation tinged with jealousy. He’d been sleeping alone for a long time.

“I said Bozinsky’s been shot. Is that clear enough, or do you need me to spell it out?”

“What—who—what the fuck happened?” Nick stammered, finally wide awake.

“I told you, there was a break-in on the boat. Some guy you were chasing didn’t want to get caught.”

“Shit. Where’s Murray? Is he okay?”

“He’s in the hospital, moron. And no, he’s not okay. He’s been _shot_.” Anyone but Nick would have heard the guilt in his voice. Nick might have even heard it in person, but long distance, sleepy and scared, all he heard was anger.

“All right, I get it. How bad is he hurt? Is he gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a damn doctor. All I know is I gotta contact his family. That ain’t you, but maybe you have some idea where they are. Or do you care that much?”

“Do—of course we care. They—they’re in Chicago. Matthew Bozinsky is his father. His mom’s name is—what—Mary? Martha? Something like that.”

“Great. I’ll just wake them up—it’s about two-thirty there—and tell ‘em their baby boy’s best friends went off and left him to die alone.”

“Come off it, Quinlan. He—he can’t be dying. And you just said you didn’t know.”

“He’s going into surgery now, that’s what I know. He took a round to the chest and the last time I saw him, he was unconscious.”

“Fuck. Okay, we’re on our way. It’s about a six hour drive, though, so if you talk to him, if you see him…”

“He ain’t gonna wake up tonight; don’t worry about that.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry. Just—just look after him, please.” Nick’s voice broke and there was a muffled debate on his end. Then Cody came on the line.

“Lieutenant, what is this? Murray was shot?”

“Yeah. He found that Blackwell guy you were hunting, but Blackwell wasn’t exactly an innocent victim. Him and a bunch of his goons busted up your boat and shot Bozinsky at his desk.”

“Oh my God,” Cody sighed, not nearly invested in anger as Nick was. “Lieutenant, will you stay there and keep an eye on him? I know you’re not our friend and you won’t comfort him much, but he’ll need someone he knows.”

“Sure, why not? Bozinsky did half your job, I might as well do the rest. Just tell me one thing—is there anything else wrong with the kid? Is he sick or on medication or anything? They asked me, but I didn’t know.”

“No. No, he’s fine. Or he was. You know what I mean. We’ll get there are quick as we can. Nick’s packing right now.”

“Well, make it snappy. I’m gonna be up all night as it is.” He hung up before Cody could make him feel any worse and took a seat where the doctor would be able to find him when there was news. There were magazines on the table beside him and he picked one up, flipping through it for a good three minutes before he realized it was a _Ladies’ Home Journal_. It didn’t really matter. All he could see was Murray’s face, pale and scared, his brown eyes wide and shiny with tears.

And it wasn’t enough that it was his, Quinlan’s, fault. He’d left the skinny kid out on a limb when it would have been plenty easy to go pick up Blackwell, and that was one thing. What was worse was that most of the time he saw Murray’s face when he closed his eyes, anyway. Ever since Murray came to town, he’d been weaseling his way under Ted’s skin to an extreme that made the already short-tempered man downright hostile. He flatly refused to humor the kid, or even be nice to him, because any little word or look might turn out to be the foot in the door that would make it impossible to ever get him out. What he realized on the boat tonight, as he stared into that pleading face, Murray’s slender hand gripping his leg in desperation, was that it was too late.

***

Murray woke slowly, feeling dizzy and faint even though he knew he was lying down. Most of his body was numb, but pain radiated up over his collarbones and down into his belly, making him wonder what had happened and if it was over yet. He opened his eyes, but it was dark and he didn’t have his glasses. Still, he thought there was someone there.

“Nick?” he whispered hoarsely. “When did you get home?”

“Nick ain’t here,” came a gruff reply. “Your buddies will be another couple hours.”

“Who—who is that?” Murray sounded scared now, not just hurt, and it twisted Ted’s guts in knots.

“It’s Lieutenant Quinlan,” he said, a little more gently. “How’re you doing? Can I get you something?”

“Water? My throat—I’d like some water, please.”

“Nurse left some ice. That okay?”

“Please.” He tried to sit up, and gasped at the pain in his chest. Suddenly the numbness was gone, and even the gasp was excruciating. He let himself go limp and closed his eyes in defeat. Tears were forming in the corners and he thought he might be able to catch them on his tongue when they fell. That might soothe his thirst. Then he felt warmth as Quinlan leaned over him, easing his left hand behind Murray’s neck and raising his head just enough to feed him chipped ice from a spoon. Murray sucked it down eagerly, ashamed of his blatant need, but not so much that he could stop.

“Easy, kid, don’t choke,” Quinlan said, and then flushed hotly, unseen in the dark. How many nights had he laid awake, stroking himself and imaging scenarios where he could say those very words?

“More, please,” Murray whispered, unaware that his words sparked an erection to go with the blush. Quinlan patiently fed him spoons full of ice, stopping only when Murray said he’d had enough.

“Are you gonna be able to sleep, or do you want me to call a nurse?”

“In a minute,” he said, leaving it in doubt which one he meant. “Why—why are you here? Are those guys coming back for me? And if they are, don’t guards usually stay in the hall?”

“No, Bozinsky, they ain’t coming back. The one you shot is cuffed to a bed in the other wing, and the rest are in jail.”

“So why—what are you doing here? It’s so late…”

“Your buddies asked me to keep an eye on you. And, just between you and me, this whole thing is kinda my fault.”

“What? No, it isn’t. I was careless and let Blackwell know I was onto him. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t even have gone home.”

“Yeah, you should’ve. And I should’ve listened when you tried to tell me about him. You were right, you know. He’s behind the thefts of ninety-eight percent of the high-end cars that disappeared in King Harbor over the last year.”

“Ninety-seven,” he corrected modestly. “I had it all worked out.”

“I know. The crime scene guys found your paper trail. It’s good work, kid.”

“Thank you. Maybe next time—” he said, and paused for a breath while Quinlan mentally filled in the rest. _You’ll listen to me_, probably. Or maybe, _I’ll go over your head._ But again Murray surprised him. “—next time we can work together.”

“Sure, we’ll do that.”

Murray smiled faintly, knowing he was being humored and not caring. He’d just been shot and didn’t have a single friend to hold his hand tonight. He deserved all the humoring he could get.

“Could you call the nurse now? It’s really starting to hurt.”

Quinlan pushed the button and a nurse was there in just a moment to give him a shot that put him right out. When Murray was soundly asleep, the lieutenant picked up his soft, slender hand and held it tight. He didn’t let go until Nick and Cody arrived at dawn. When he heard their voices at the door, he got up and put on his jacket.

“Lieutenant,” Cody whispered in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on him, like you asked. But I’m off duty now, and you better take care of him, because I don’t want to come back.” Well, he did, but they didn’t need to know that.

“So that’s it?” Nick asked as he reached for the door. “You’re not going to tell us what happened or even say goodbye to Murray?”

“He’ll tell you all about it in great detail, I’m sure,” Quinlan said dryly. “And he doesn’t need me to say goodbye. You’re his friends. You’re here now. That’s what he needs.”

This time they stepped aside and let the lieutenant open the door. Murray was beginning to stir, roused by their voices and the absence of the hand that had comforted him all night, and his friends went to him. Quinlan took the opportunity to slip away. No one noticed he was gone.


End file.
